Experiment 1753: What Normal Humans Do for Fun
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John and Sherlock have a movie night (for a case, of course!) The boys watch rom-coms, eat like they're teenagers, Sherlock gets a bit poorly, and doctor John to the rescue! Slice of life, with a little bit of a sick!fic near the end.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Experiment 1753 : What Normal Humans Do for Fun  
Fandom: _Sherlock_  
Author(s): Cumberbatch Critter AND ScribeofRED  
**

John listlessly scanned the back of _Mean Girls_, catching perhaps every seventh word. There was no way this would offer enough mental stimulation to engage Sherlock's voracious mind.

Not that a movie night with Sherlock was something he imagined he'd find himself doing. Movie-watching wasn't exactly Sherlock's forte and what they were watching—romance movies—seemed like a good way to get Sherlock in a strop within ten minutes. It was for a case—a murder had been staged from a scene in a new romantic movie—and now Sherlock (and by design, John) had to figure out which movie... by process of elimination.

Great way to have a night-in with his flatmate. Wonderful. He was excited _beyond belief_.

It was going to be a horrible night.

"I don't see why you can't watch the movie for me and then let me know what happens—" Sherlock paused; then leaned over John's shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Reading summaries, Sherlock," John replied without looking up. He could practically hear the scowl on Sherlock's face through each disdainfully spoken word. "It's how most people determine which movie they want to watch." _But then, you're not most people, are you?_

He put the plastic case back onto the shelf. "And no, I won't watch the movie for you—you always complain I never recount the correct facts, so watching it together will save us both time."

Sherlock huffed. "You do realise the implications that are going to come of our 'night-in', as you so put it. We're watching romance movies. If Mrs Hudson comes up, I have no doubt the rumours are going to follow us around for weeks." He reached for another movie case—hesitantly, John noticed, as though the movie might bite him or infect him with its romantic sentimentality.

"You and I are the only ones who know the truth about our relationship, Sherlock," he retorted with a bit more snap to his voice than he intended—they were in public! "If you don't care what others think, I don't care."

Sherlock snickered as he put the DVD case back. "Anyway, it could be any of these movies. The woman said all she remembered was that it had 'heart' in the title. Hardly a clue when all romance movies have to do with the 'heart'."

John blinked at the case he was holding, realising that it didn't contain the necessary word. He returned it to the shelf. "Explain to me why you didn't Google this information? Normally you don't bother with legwork when your phone or laptop will suffice."

"Google what? I Googled some of it, but all of these screenshots came up from all these movies and then Lestrade called with another case, so I abandoned the task. You could have, though. Besides, this is your area, not mine. Why didn't /you/ Google it? There's one," he said, pointing.

"Because I was too busy chasing you across the ugly half of London," John said as he snatched the case. He glanced at it, taking a moment to admire the busty woman on the cover before passing it to Sherlock. Chances were he'd be able to deduce what they needed merely by holding it.

"Oh, don't act like you weren't enjoying it," Sherlock said coyly as he took the case.

John snorted. Of course he enjoyed it, torrential downpour notwithstanding, but that wasn't the point. "Besides, I thought you'd already solved—oh, there's another one." He picked up the ninth case so far with the word 'heart' in the title, handing it off to Sherlock. He didn't take it. "Sherlock?"

He looked up and realised that Sherlock had moved. He was focussed on something else: the fantasy section of DVDs. John sighed and straightened up. "Sherlock? Ohh, _Lord of the Rings_," he exclaimed, grabbing _Fellowship_ off the shelf.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Remind me to move out of the way the next time you see a movie you like. What is that, anyway? _The Lord of the Rings_? Sounds stupid."

John scowled. "It's really good. Why haven't you seen them?" He grabbed the other two in the series. Extended editions, too—fantastic. Why didn't he own these already?

Sherlock sighed. "I take it we'll be adding this to our pile of movies to take home?"

John grinned. "Yes! And you're going to watch them."

"Doubt it." Sherlock flicked his gaze to the pile of DVDs that they had acquired. "I think we've probably got enough to keep us busy for the night. Or weekend," he muttered dryly. "I hope I get a case. A case better than watching romance movies. Did you bring cash?"

John sighed as he fished around inside his pocket until his fingers found his battered leather wallet. "Of course, because you never think to bring yours with you." _Or you've already 'borrowed' mine and conveniently forgotten to give it back._

That had happened before, including one particularly embarrassing incident where John had stopped for a quick meal while Sherlock employed his knowledge of London's less known paths to track an international gangs of thieves. John's blood still simmered at the embarrassment of having to call Sherlock and demand he return to the restaurant so he could pay for his Vietnamese sub.

"Did you want to finish finding 'heart' films or come back if we don't have the one we need?" John asked as they made their way to the till.

"I brought my wallet," Sherlock said, patting his chest where the interior pocket apparently housed his wallet. "I'll pay for the cab since you don't like handling the charge. And we'll just come back if we don't find it. I'll know the scene immediately; apparently, the crime scene was a date setting built to be an exact replica of a certain date spot in one of these horrendous movies." He fell into line next to John. "With any luck, we'll be able to bypass the movies altogether by getting lucky on the first go."

"And then we'll be able to watch _Lord of the Rings_," John said enthusiastically. He didn't get a response and glanced up at Sherlock, who was focussed on the plain, young cashier checking out an elderly woman's movie, brows crinkled in the familiar pattern that meant he was in the middle of deducing someone... which meant Sherlock was bored again. "No," he snapped in an undertone, tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to ensure he earned his attention. "No deductions right now. We're paying for these movies and then we're leaving, _without_ blurting out everyone's sordid love lives."

Sherlock's expression was too innocent. "What? I wasn't deducing anyone."

That was a lie, but Sherlock didn't say anything else, so John didn't press the topic.

The cashier handed the old woman her receipt and smiled as she shuffled towards the door, and then nodded them forward. She didn't comment on their unusual selection of movies, although John noticed her eyes dart to the clock twice between scanning the movies, before stiffening as the door buzzed a new patron through.

"Oh," Sherlock said suddenly, voice dripping that smug tone that had, in the past, preceded more than a few fists thrown his way, John's included. "You like gingers."

"Sherlock, don't," John warned, glancing over his shoulder long enough to determine the short, early twenty-something man with red hair curling wildly about his ears who had arrived wasn't a threat before turning to glare at his flatmate. "Now isn't the time."

Sherlock ignored him, looking between the red-headed male and the cashier, who stared up at the tall detective with wide eyes blotted almost colorless by the reflection of the fluorescent lights. "Or perhaps you like pilots. That's what he's planning to be, right? You wish to catch his attention so that he can whisk you away to the other side of the world, where you have a misguided delusion that you will live in perfect harmony and happiness with total disregard to the rest of the world and its happenings."

John drove his elbow in Sherlock' ribs as the cashier spluttered and blushed the colour of the supposed pilot-to-be's hair. Sherlock ignored the jab and bowled ahead.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on him. He's bisexual and currently engaging in coitus with two other men, all three aware of the situation and revelling in their new threesome. But they are looking for a female participant, so, if that's your thing..." He trailed off cheerfully and flashed her a brief smile as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

This time, John did blush as Sherlock laid bare every ugly detail. "Yeah, that's enough," he muttered, handing over the cash for their rentals. He yanked Sherlock, who barely had time to grab their bag of DVDs, towards the door. The redhead gave Sherlock and then him a knowing leer that froze John's intended-on-behalf-of apology into a lump that burned like dry ice on his tongue. "Forget it," he snapped, shoving Sherlock through the door.

It was supposed to be a simple movie run.

"Why," he demanded, escaping into the cool, rain-scented evening air, "do you always have to keep going? Why can't you _ever_ leave things alone?"

Sherlock glanced sideways at him. "The ginger pilot-to-be thinks we're going to go cuddle up under the blankets tonight, watch our movies, and be spurred on to have passionate sex until the break of day." He paused. "Actually, I think he would have been happy to join that scenario, to be honest."

John sighed heavily. "Thanks, yes, too much information, Sherlock," he muttered, anger giving way to muted irritation. Some people would never change, he decided, and Sherlock was Exhibit A. He derived far too much pleasure from exposing everyone's dirtiest secrets for the world to gawk at. And speaking of love and dirty secrets...

"Will you need to watch the films through or can you fast-forward them? You're just looking for a specific set, yeah?"

Sherlock licked his lips, hailing down a cab. "I think we can fast-forward through them. Well, parts of them, anyway. Once we find what we're looking for, we can go back and watch the whole movie front to finish. Less wasting time on rom-coms that way."

He slid into the cab and settled down, John following his lead.

"So, what else does a 'night-in' entail?" Sherlock asked, as they merged into traffic. "I did a search on my phone"—which he pulled out of his pocket and waved twice—"and it said to enjoy a proper 'lad's night-in', there needs to be movies with scantily clad women, several different kinds of junk food, and various types of alcohol, depending on your choice of companion." He looked at John, features unusually open. "Is that right?"

John chuckled, turning to face him. "You forgot the fast cars and explosions," he added. "But it depends on the lads involved. Alcohol is typical. Junk food is a must, not that you'd eat any of it, bird-like eater that you are, and scantily clad women are an added bonus, although I have no idea if you'd be into that sort of thing anyway. Besides, I want to watch LotR."

"'Lotrah?' Oh," Sherlock mused. "Acronym for _Lord of the Rings_. L-O-T-R. LotR. Couldn't you just say the name instead of coming up with idiotic-sounding acronyms?" He looked back at his phone, thumbs flying. "There," he said, after a moment. "I placed an order for an extra-large pizza from Angelo's. He'll have it ready in twenty minutes. Now, as for the scantily clad women... You enjoy that sort of thing and, given that some of these movies are rated R for sexuality and nudity, that should get you your fix for the night. _Lord of the Rings_ has to come after the other movies. Case work first, jewellery lords later."

John gave the cabbie a wary glance, then remembered that they probably heard a hundred things a day they'd rather not, shrugged, and turned his attention back to Sherlock. "You do realise what you just said, don't you?"

Sherlock's head tilted a slight degree to the side. "What? What did I say that has trodden upon your level of embarrassment?" he asked. "Was it the comment about you getting off on the scantily clad women in the movies?"

John's eyes involuntarily jumped to the cabbie again, who gave no sign he'd heard anything, even though he probably had; they had mics in cabs these days, right? "Of course it was. I don't know how many times I've told you that there are some topics that should be discussed in private." Oh, that didn't have salacious undertones at all. Whatever. He couldn't change how people thought. "Not every single detail of everyone's lives—including my own—should be advertised to the general public, no matter how amusing you seem to find it."

That was part of the problem, though, wasn't it? Sherlock was bored, so he created his own amusement however he could, even if it came at the expense of his flatmate and friends' embarrassment. For the countless time since he'd met Sherlock, he wondered why he continued to accompany Sherlock in public.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Trust me. Both I and the cabbie have been privy to far more conversations about sex than you - or Mycroft on my account, for that matter—seem to think. Besides, the way you phrased that sentence made it seem like we talk about this sort of thing in private..."

He trailed off for a moment, tapping at his mobile again, before picking the conversation back up. "But I think I did read something about this. Guys, or women, depending on who's spending the night with whom, sit around and talk about sex." Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly. "I don't want to hear about that woman you were dating... the recent one who thought she was pregnant but didn't want to tell you? Did she ever tell you?" he asked, despite the fact that he had just said he didn't want to talk about her.

"No, she didn't," John said evenly. There was no point getting upset—he'd broken things off with Jenna when she'd let it slip she had another boyfriend. "But that explains why you never "deduced" her. I was wondering about that—you generally love showing off." He pursed his lips. "You know, I really should have seen that coming. Your silence says more than most people's speeches can accomplish."

A feat in and of itself, for Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled frankly and turned away. "I don't always ruin your date nights. You were quite keen on her," he said as the cab pulled up outside of Baker Street.

Sherlock handed over the cash even before the cabbie gave them the charge, told him to keep the change, and slipped out of the cab.

By the time that John had gotten out of the cab, grabbing the bag of movies Sherlock had left on the suspicious-smelling floor, Sherlock already had the door unlocked and was pulling off his scarf as he stepped foot in the entrance of 221. John followed him, and as he stepped into the flat, the delightful aroma of fresh scones tickled his nose. He inhaled deeply, mouth already watering. No one, not even Sherlock, could resist Mrs Hudson's scones.

"You get the movies cued up," he told Sherlock, slipping free of his coat and passing over the bag of movies. "I'll see if I can convince Mrs Hudson to part with a few of her scones." Of course she would; John figured they'd make the perfect appetiser before they delved into the real snacks. "I don't suppose it would be too much to ask for you to gather the rest of the food if I'm not up in two minutes?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock paused on the stairs, turning around with his gloves half off, brows furrowed. "What other kinds of food am I supposed to gather? We have pizza coming and you're getting scones... I'll put on some tea and coffee?" His eyes sought John's in a rare show of asking for approval.

John came to a full stop. "Tea and coffee?" he repeated, staring incredulously up the stairs. "Sherlock, this isn't a formal get-together." He softened his tone, reminding himself that Sherlock was genuinely confused. "We only get to splurge like this once in a while, so we need to make it count. There's soda in the fridge, next to the half-dissolved pancreas, bags of snack and nut mixes in the food cabinet, and several bags of crisps in my room, just inside the door." And Jelly Babies and fudge brownies and mint chocolate chip ice cream, which was in Mrs Hudson's freezer to prevent Sherlock from having eaten the entire container already, as it was thus far the only flavour John knew for certain that Sherlock liked.

He wondered if they had too much food for just the two of them, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. It would keep. More or less.

"Well, I don't know what we're supposed to 'splurge' on, do I?" Sherlock retorted. "I don't sit around and watch movies and stuff my face full of food that will rot my teeth out." He shoved his gloves in his pockets. "And why do you keep crisps in your room? I keep thinking we're out when I go to find them in the cabinet and they're not there!" He huffed and turned around, taking the last stairs two at a time.

"I only put them in my room because you eat them all otherwise!" John called up at the detective's retreating back.

He didn't receive a response and John sighed, turning for the door to 221A. With any luck, the night would be salvaged once the rom-coms were out of the way and he had some good junk food to distract himself.

* * *

**This was originally a role play between ScribeofRED and I. She played John - who takes the POV for this adventure! - and I was our favourite consulting detective. This is Scribe's first time role-playing (and writing) John and both of us' firsts turning a role play into story-format. This will (most-likely) be a threeshot, so stay tuned!**

**I, nor ScribeofRED, own _Sherlock_. Thank you kindly for your favs/reviews/follows!**


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs Hudson's scones—one blueberry batch and one raisin batch—were fresh out of the oven, and she insisted John take a half-dozen of each, despite his half-hearted protests that they wouldn't be able to eat all of them tonight. It was a token argument—everyone knew those scones would be gone in less than twenty-four hours.

John stepped into the flat to find that Sherlock had, apparently, gotten into the spirit of things. There were bowls overflowing with two types of crisps, one with snack mix, and a mug of nuts crammed on the already overflowing coffee table. The Jelly Babies were poured into... yes, that was the crystal ash tray from Buckingham Palace sitting on the sofa. A quick glance into the kitchen ascertained that Sherlock was mixing up a box of brownies, cuffs unbuttoned and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

John's mouth began watering at the sight—one of Sherlock's hidden talents was baking, although it made sense once he thought about it, as baking was nothing more than chemical reactions. Sherlock probably saw it as nothing more than an experiment with edible results.

He set the scones on the sofa and relocated the dozens of bursting cold case folders away from the coffee table, and then made his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock wasn't a messy person, regardless of what the state of their flat might suggest, but John couldn't help the laughter that burst forth when he realised that there was a smear of cocoa enhancing the shadow beneath Sherlock's right cheekbone. "Trying to disguise ourselves as brownies now?" he teased, grabbing the brownie pan to prepare it.

Sherlock looked at him blankly before raising his hand to swipe the cocoa off his face. "Baking is hardly expected to be a clean activity," he said, licking his fingers. "Do we want normal brownies or do you want peppermint, orange, marshmallow, anise, or..." He spun the small spice rack. "Strawberry, which I despise. We have chocolate chips, and the rest of the butterscotch that I didn't use on that flammability experiment..."

Sherlock tilted his head toward him, dipping his fingers into the batter and licking them off contemplatively.

John smacked his forearm as he walked by. "Don't. We already have mint chocolate ice cream," he said, putting it into the freezer—which was currently home to what looked like a... thumb collection? Of course it was. "And I don't like marshmallows. As long as that butterscotch isn't contaminated, we could make salted butterscotch. Or coffee flavoured. Or half-and-half."

"Butterscotch is fine, but I don't know how to make salted butterscotch. I assume you add lots of salt. Coffee brownies sound good, too... Oh, I should have made Earl Grey macarons." He stood in silent contemplation with narrowed eyes for a few seconds before visibly returning to his body. "Do you want to make the butterscotch brownies, then? I want to have a shower."

John sighed with mock irritation. "Sure, I'll make them—half-and-half, I think. It won't matter if the flavours blend a bit." When Sherlock wasn't looking, John swiped his fingers through the batter to taste it, despite chastising Sherlock just moments ago. "I didn't know you could make Earl Grey macarons. You'll have to make them some time—Mrs Hudson loves macarons.

"I can." Sherlock's back straightened and his features grew sharper, as though he wasn't certain whether to feel proud or affronted. "I can make anything you want; I just need time to test it first. Baking's actually quite simple."

"Everything's simple for a genius." John shot him a grin. "And the sea salt would be... where?"

"In the mouthwash bottle in the back of the cabinet." With that, Sherlock turned and trotted back to the bathroom.

"Of course it's in the mouthwash," John muttered. "At least it's not in the bleach bottle again."

Maybe Sherlock was learning after all.

* * *

John started the movies without Sherlock—the crime scene photos were pinned on the wall directly behind him, after all—but only caught snatches of the movie as he moved the rest of the papers, a laptop he'd never seen before, and an entire stack of Elvis records—why did they have these, again?—from the sofa and onto whatever surface was available. Mostly it ended up on their chairs. (Never beneath them. Sherlock had made that perfectly clear last Tuesday when he snapped at Mrs Hudson that he was measuring the amount of dust that gathered beneath them.)

"If you want to sit on your chair, tough luck," he muttered as he tossed one of Sherlock's extra—and extra ratty—dressing gowns on the detective's burdened chair. "You should've thought of that before you insisted nothing be put under the furniture and yelled at me when my laptop was the one that got blanketed in dust..."

The flat smelled of brownies by the time that he had successfully—more or less—moved everything, so he went back to the kitchen to check on them. He did the toothpick test and grabbed a towel to pull them out.

"How's the movie?"

The voice in his left ear nearly startled John into dumping the brownies back into the oven, even though he had felt the heat radiating off Sherlock's body a second before he spoke. _Quieter than a bloody cat when he wants to be..._

"One day you won't be fortunate and someone is going to hurt you if you insist on sneaking up behind them," he muttered, grabbing the coarse sea salt and a knife. "No matches yet to the photos. But it looks promising—I think the parlour chairs are the same as the ones in the photos." He handed a brownie back to Sherlock, who was still hovering behind his elbow.

A moment later: "Ow!" as Sherlock chowed down on the hot brownie. _That's what you get_, John thought, but wisely held his tongue. Didn't need Sherlock in a strop.

"Fantastic," Sherlock mumbled. "I didn't expect to be right first go. Less romance, more... _Lord of the Rings_, was it?"

John nodded and finished sprinkling the sea salt on the correct half of the brownies. "Yes."

"Hm." Sherlock rummaged through the freezer, pulled out the ice cream, and took the entire carton with him. He grabbed a spoon, another brownie, and traipsed into the sitting room.

John took charge of the platter of brownies and an extra spoon and traced Sherlock's steps into the sitting room... where the detective was on the sofa, already staring at the TV with an obscene amount of ice cream heaped on his spoon.

John was just taking a seat on the other end of the sofa when the familiar ring echoed throughout the flat, signalling that someone was at the front door.

"Oh! The pizza!" Sherlock exclaimed. He didn't move an inch.

John sighed. "I'll just get that, then, shall I?" he asked, even though he knew it was a rhetorical question.

Sherlock glanced up long enough to blink at him. "What?" He looked back at the TV, licking ice cream off his spoon.

He was clearly in gathering evidence mode: eyes focussed on the TV screen John could see flickering in the corner of his eye; there was no way he was convincing him to move now.

"Fine."

He snagged Sherlock's wallet and darted down the stairs just in time for the bell to begin ringing in earnest. "Yes, yes, I'm coming," he muttered, although he couldn't help grinning when he found Angelo standing with not one but two pizza boxes in his arms.

Angelo vehemently refused to accept payment, saying that he still needed to pay Sherlock back for everything he had done for him years ago. By the time that John had argued with him about the charge (and failed in his argument) and returned upstairs, Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle. His spoon was still halfway to his mouth, but at this point, the ice cream was starting to drip. At least it was hovering over the carton.

He sighed. "What do you want, bruschetta or spicy Thai chicken?"

There was no answer; he looked up to find Sherlock staring at the TV with wide eyes that reflected the image of the two main characters glaring at one another across a fancy parlour. His fingers tingled when he recognized the ugly lamp behind the female's head.

"That's the scene, isn't it?" he asked, watching the screen for another few moments before turning his attention to Sherlock and snorting in amusement as a dollop of cream and minty chocolate chunks plopped off his spoon into the container, which, thankfully, wasn't in such a pitiful state. Yet.

"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly. He fell silent again. He did, however, raise his empty spoon and lick the melted remnants off the stainless steel.

He didn't move again, and after a few minutes John grabbed the condensation-slicked tub to return to the freezer. He settled onto his end of the sofa to watch the remainder of the scene, snagging a slice of the thick, crispy-crusted pizza as he did.

Three minutes later, Sherlock burst to his feet and, amid his standard monologue when he made a breakthrough in a case—,"Oh, obvious! Clever, but obvious. The only people who would know the murderer would be people who watched this movie and, according to IMDB, it's not a very popular movie. Only the victim would have understood the meaning and the murderer would have gotten away scot-free if it hadn't been for the similarities. Wonderful!"—dashed off to his bedroom.

"If you tell me you need to be there when Lestrade makes the arrest, I will turn your phone off and get Mrs Hudson to mail it to your brother immediately, because we are not leaving the flat tonight," John called after him.

Sherlock only resurfaced after he, presumably, called Lestrade to point him in the right direction. He returned to the sitting room, pausing as he sat down. "Where's my ice cream?" he asked, then grabbed a piece of pizza as though he'd never spoken, folded it in half, and took a large bite.

Tearing his eyes away from the steamy on-screen kiss, John watched with mild satisfaction warming his chest as Sherlock made short work of the pizza. He had gotten better about eating between cases—he hadn't suffered a fainting spell in almost two months, which John was unspeakably grateful for.

Taking in the shuddering look of disgust on Sherlock's face as the kissing began its inevitable metamorphosis into the shedding of clothes, John asked: "Ready to switch to LotR now?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, his curls bouncing with the movement. "Yes, please. I don't understand why people like these types of movies. It looks—and sounds—like both of the participants of the kiss are having their faces sucked off," he muttered. Getting to his feet, he grabbed two more slices of pizza and carried them to the kitchen, shoving them into the microwave. "Do you want tea or are you good with soda?"

"Hmm? Oh, soda is good for now." Although... maybe it would be better to take Sherlock up on his offer. He probably wouldn't inquire about tea anytime later. "Actually, yes, tea. If you're tossing the kettle on, I'll take some, ta." He switched out the romance movie for _Lord of the Rings_, asking, "Do you want to marathon, or watch until one of us falls asleep? They're almost nine hours collected."

"As you like," Sherlock replied absently, flopping back onto the sofa. He took a drink of his soda and a large bite of steaming pizza.

John happily settled back into the cushions, grinning as Galadriel's low voice sent the speakers rumbling.

Sherlock seemed intrigued with it as they watched—that or bored straight into his mind palace, since he didn't say anything, and John enjoyed the movies too much to break the potentially delicate silence between them.

It wasn't until they reached the scene where Gandalf was recounting how he escaped Isengard that Sherlock finally proved he was paying attention.

"They clearly have winged beasts that are strong enough to support fully grown adults, so why don't they fly to Mount Doom—which is a stupid name—using those?"

John hit 'pause' and reached for a handful of crisps. "Because then there wouldn't be a plot."

"But all their issues would be solved and they wouldn't have to blunder through the next two and a half movies." Sherlock poked the corner of his pizza crust towards the frozen image of Frodo's wide-eyed stare. "Simple."

John shrugged. "There's an actual reason the Fellowship didn't take the Eagles to Mordor," he admitted, "but I don't remember what it is. It's been years since I saw these movies, and even longer since I read the books."

"It's still stupid," Sherlock said in his best sulking voice, but he didn't offer any more protests, and waved for John to play the movie again, which he did, grinning slightly. _Lord of the Rings_ appealed to everyone, even self-proclaimed high functioning sociopathic consulting detectives.

Sherlock made the occasional comment as they picked their way through the food and snacks, but was as lenient as John had ever heard while watching a movie with him. As Frodo swept his cloak over Sam to hide them from what were clearly feminine eyes, John nibbled at the remains of his third scone, bracing his feet against the coffee table to push himself into a mostly sitting position again. As though triggered by his movement, Sherlock made a grab for the bowl of popcorn they had acquired throughout the movies.

And continued to shift again. And again. And again.

Clearly not boredom, then, given his body language. With no visible end to Sherlock's wiggling in sight, John sighed. "Sherlock, you can pause it, you know. It will still be here when you get back. If you have to go, then go." Honestly, he was such a child sometimes!

"No," Sherlock retorted, eyes narrowing slightly. "I'll wait," he said stubbornly.

John dropped his head against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. If he weren't so tired, he would've made his way to the loo and locked the door merely to spite Sherlock for all the times he'd occupied the washroom when he needed it. As it was, the mere effort of mentally plotting out the course was too much, and he resumed staring blankly at the TV. He didn't remember this part—it had been a while since he'd watched this, actually—but he couldn't bring himself to focus. It was late. He was exhausted.

John didn't know how much time passed, but Sherlock bounding to his feet drew him out of his half-dozing state. The detective all but ran to the bathroom; John rolled his eyes and sat up tiredly, punching the stop button on the DVD player. He was going to bed, and if he was going to bed, Sherlock would wait to watch the rest of the movies, because John wanted to see them, too.

Blinking as the heaviness of exhaustion descended upon his eyes, he scooped up the pizza boxes and carried them into the kitchen. Between the video store, the food, the romance movie, and _Lord of the Rings_, they'd been at this for almost seven hours and it had gone half past three in the morning.

He knew they should have waited until after sleeping to start the movies.

He sighed and continued to clean up the more temperature-sensitive food—had they really consumed an entire tub of ice cream?—until Sherlock rejoined him in the kitchen.

"Well, that's better," Sherlock muttered, ruffling his hair. "Oh, you've cleaned up," he added, offhandedly, as he grabbed his mug and poured himself fresh tea. His back arched in a subtle stretch and he yawned, sipping at his tea afterwards. His eyelids were drooping as he breathed in the steam off the tea.

"Time for bed, I think," John said.

He expected a rebuttal, but Sherlock merely nodded. "I think so."

He smiled faintly. "Good. More _Rings_ in the morning."

Sherlock yawned again and set his mug down. "Good night," he said bluntly, turning and striding back for his bedroom.

"Well," John muttered, watching him vanish into his bedroom. "That could have been worse." He shook his head slightly before flicking the light off.

* * *

**Because everyone likes _Lord of the Rings_... more or less. xP One more chapter left and I'm pretty sure you can take a guess as to where it's going to go now.**

**We don't own IMDB, LotR... anything we referenced or mentioned in this chapter, and not _Sherlock_, either. ScribeofRED and I thank you greatly for your favs, follows, and reviews!**


	3. Chapter 3

Consciousness returned to John in a sudden start, adrenalin pumping through his veins. He was warm—he was always warm, thanks to the sun-baked days spent in Afghanistan—and cosy, but was uncertain of what had woken him up. He pushed his blankets aside and lifted himself to his elbows, listening hard for what had reached into his subconscious and yanked him so rudely from the depths of his deep sleep.

Through the quiet of the flat, he heard it: a faint, familiar noise, one that conjured up images of when Sherlock had caught a brutal twenty-four hour flu three months ago: Sherlock was throwing up.

John flung the duvet away and snatched his dressing gown from its hook, slipping into it as he sleepily made his way downstairs. It might be early in the morning—but, wait, did that clock say it was really one in the _afternoon_? It didn't matter in retrospect, but Sherlock was vomiting and John had no inclination as to _why_.

He rounded the corner, where he was met with the frustrating sight of the closed bathroom door. Awful retching noises filtered beneath the heavy wood.

"Sherlock?" He tapped on the door twice. "Are you all right?"

There was movement inside the bathroom. Specifically, the toilet flushed and the tap turned on. Sherlock was probably brushing his teeth, because it didn't take that long to wash his hands. True to John's guess, Sherlock opened the door almost two minutes later. He was pale.

"I'm fine," he said, voice straining to maintain its normal volume. Without another word, he walked around John and crawled back into bed, burying himself underneath the duvet.

John had to force himself not to pelt Sherlock with questions regarding his health. Sherlock wasn't sick; he hadn't been exhibiting any of the usual signs preceding a cold or flu the night before. Besides, he normally claimed he felt a bit off after emerging from a case-induced fast—this was just a slightly more intense reaction, likely due to the copious amount of unhealthy food he'd consumed in such a short amount of time.

John felt like kicking himself for not insisting Sherlock ease into eating. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

He trailed after Sherlock, and watched as he settled his trembling body on the near side of the bed and tugged the duvet up around his ears until only his curls were visible.

"It could take up to several hours for your body to realign itself," John said quietly, walking over to Sherlock's windows to tug the curtains tighter so they let less light in. "Would you like a cuppa? Might settle your stomach."

Sherlock sighed, ducking his head further into his pillows. "No, I think I'll be fine. I was tired of having a stomach-ache, so I made myself throw up, which should help. Once I stop shaking," he added, tugging the blankets closer.

"You made yourself—" John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which was matted across the left side of his skull. "Of course you did. Because you couldn't _possibly_ wait for your body to naturally reach that point."

He watched Sherlock's duvet shudder as the taxed body beneath it trembled, and he didn't miss the way Sherlock continued to tighten his limbs around his torso, as though it was all he could do to hold himself together. Direct warmth would help to ease his discomfort, but he didn't want tea. So...

"Hang on a sec."

Without waiting for a reply, John marched into the kitchen, turned on the tap to begin heating up, and trotted up the stairs to his room to grab his hot water bottle. Steam was billowing from the sink when John returned and in a few seconds he had a water bottle that was nearly too hot to touch. He returned to Sherlock's room, folding a towel he had grabbed off the counter around it. "Here," he said, peeling the blanket from Sherlock's shoulders so he could hand him the wrapped bottle. "Place this against your abdomen."

Sherlock took it from John, flinging the towel aside. He pressed the hot water bottle against his shirt and tucked the blanket around himself again to hold it in place.

"Be careful with that—you can still burn yourself with only one layer of fabric between you and the—why do I bother?" John wondered aloud, when it became clear that Sherlock either wasn't listening or didn't care.

"Are you going back to bed?" Sherlock murmured.

John paused as he crouched to pick up the discarded towel, looking up to find Sherlock watching him with eyes that were half open. "I..." Was that a spark of curiosity in Sherlock's eyes? What could have piqued his interest this time? "Did you want me to?"

Sherlock merely closed his eyes and shuffled a bit. "I was just asking."

Just asking. Right. That curiosity hadn't meant a thing.

He grabbed the towel and straightened, glancing at Sherlock's digital. One twenty-three in the afternoon. He didn't know exactly when they'd gone to sleep, but it couldn't have been later than four by the time he fell asleep. He'd slept for almost nine hours. Still... Sherlock was ill and he clearly wanted something.

"Give me a few minutes," he said. "Then I'll be out of your hair."

He used the loo, splashed some water on his face, decided he could brush his teeth later, and then brewed two cuppas. Despite Sherlock's disinterest in tea right now, he really did need to replenish his body's fluids.

"Drink this," he said, holding out the mug of tea to Sherlock, who pushed himself into a sitting position and reached forward to take the mug. His other hand was still holding the water bottle, John noted.

Sherlock took a few gulps of the tea before setting it down. It looked like he had drunk more than half, though, so John didn't protest; instead, he curled his fingers around his own almost-too-hot mug and took a seat on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock, who was still trembling but nowhere near as aggressively as before.

"Better. I figured I'd be better if I threw up..." Sherlock hunkered down a bit more, curling around the hot water bottle.

"Is that hot enough or do you want me to refill it?"

Sherlock yawned. "It's still good and hot," he mumbled. "I'll just put it under my shirt when it gets cool enough. It'll be fine for a while." He opened his eyes. "Are you going back to bed now?" His brow furrowed as he studied John. "The chamomile from your tea seems to be taking effect, so it would be your best option to try and sleep now... if you plan on it."

John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock seemed strangely fixated on him falling back asleep. Why?

A closer examination of Sherlock's expression revealed something that he had come to know far too well: it was the "I have a new experiment and I will see it through to its end" glint just beneath the surface of his eyes.

John sighed, eyes trailing back to the window. Great. It was Baskerville all over again—with hopefully less distressing results. He knew from experience that he had no choice in the matter: Sherlock was remarkably hard to ignore when he was in the middle of an experiment that required someone else's assistance.

Sherlock was still staring at him; John could feel his gaze boring into the back of his head. "I would appreciate it," he said, looking back at the detective, "if you would explain what you plan to do _before_ you do it."

Sherlock's head fell a few degrees to the left. "I was wondering why physical contact helps to calm people down. In times of distress, people are always seen hugging or holding hands. On the rare occasion that you have a panic attack, my presence helps you to calm down. I was wondering if it helps other physical ailments. Like being sick."

John stared, lips parted slightly, at Sherlock for a few seconds before laughing. "Sorry," he said, pressing his knuckles against his lips to control his laughter at the affronted expression on Sherlock's face. "Sorry." He took a deep breath. "It's just that has to be the _most_ roundabout way that anyone's ever asked me for a hug. You know, you could have just said. I didn't think you were the hugging type."

Sherlock scowled. "Well, it's not exactly a _hug_," he muttered.

"You want me to cuddle with you," John clarified.

"Can we not call it cuddling? It's not cuddling. It's for science's sake."

John sighed and set his mug down next to Sherlock's on the nightstand. "So... an experiment on physical contact and its benefits. Right." He walked around to the other side of the bed, gingerly slipping beneath the blankets. "Because that _is_ what normal people call cuddling," he added, wiggling beneath the covers until he was comfortable. Sherlock's mattress was softer than his own.

"I do not cuddle," Sherlock grumbled, shifting a bit closer. His gaze flicked to John and then back to the space between them before he shuffled over a bit more, hesitantly.

Was that... was that Sherlock being _shy_? That was almost cute.

"No, of course you don't." John kept his tone light; Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable at having been caught craving something so _human_. "All right, what do you want to know?"

Sherlock stared at him as he settled down a couple of inches away. "I don't know. This doesn't seem comfortable," he muttered. "How does it help? I've never slept with anyone before."

Sherlock's body was so stiff next to him, he may as well be at the peak of rigor mortis. For a moment, John was suddenly back in the desert with the rising sun making him squint as he bent over one of the three dozen casualties of an enemy ambush that his squad had located after almost a full night's search.

Then Sherlock's shoulder bumped into his own and the memories dissolved into grains of sand that filtered into the depths of his brain, ready to seep out and entangle him again at a later time. He cleared his throat.

"Well, you'll never be comfortable if you don't loosen up." He gently pushed Sherlock's head back into the pillow, resting his hand on his forehead at the same time to just make sure. "Take a few deep breaths and allow your muscles to relax."

"You're warm," Sherlock murmured. "And I can feel your breath on my hair..." He shifted closer. "This is interesting, actually."

John didn't comment on Sherlock's observations, just hummed quietly. Despite the hours that Sherlock could go without talking, he was a verbal processor, especially in unfamiliar circumstances. If the urge came upon him, he could easily spend the next hour cataloguing their reactions to this experiment.

He was a bit surprised when Sherlock rested the side of his head on his chest, but he took it in stride. Sherlock had done stranger things.

_ Hugs_, he remembered. Sherlock wanted to test hugs and the reactions they elicited. Easy enough.

He looped his free arm across Sherlock's shoulders, loose enough that he could pull away if the need arose.

Sherlock's head snapped up, curls tickling the underside of John's chin, when John tucked his arm around him. "Oh..." Sherlock said softly. "_This_ is the appeal of sleeping with someone... but it seems like it could be awfully hot, especially in the summer. Even if you slept naked, your bodies would stick together, not to mention the sweating. Convenient for winter... trapping body heart under the blankets as well as sharing it through physical contact..." He trailed off, yawning. "And it's common knowledge that being warm helps people to fall asleep..."

John wasn't prone to blushing, but he could feel the heat rising up his neck and spreading as Sherlock rambled. Sherlock had confirmed that he'd never slept with anyone for any reason, so it made sense that his mind would travel down the sleeping naked path.

"Sleeping with someone can be uncomfortably hot in the summer," he admitted, "but only when the temperatures climb into the mid-to-high twenties." Personally, he liked being warmer than not at night—years in Afghanistan, where the nights could be brutally cold, had taught him to retain as much heat as possible during sleeping hours.

Sherlock lowered his head again without a word and pressed his ear to John's heart. John couldn't help but smile fondly down at the messy curls, which had begun to frizz and twist wildly from sleep. This was the most relaxed he'd seen Sherlock in days—weeks, even. They'd had an increase in cases the last month, and the frenetic pace had begun to wear on both of them. He was grateful that Sherlock was taking the opportunity to unwind while he could.

There were no other deductions, although John began to suspect that was because the deep and steady breathing he could feel coming from Sherlock was an indication that the detective had fallen asleep again. His breathing was lulling, and John's eyes slipped closed.

He hadn't intended to fall back asleep, but he must have. The next time he opened his eyes, only a sliver of light peeked around the curtains, and Sherlock was curled up against his chest, one arm draped about his torso.

Hair tickled his nose and lips, and he lifted his head to rid himself of the sensation. That must've been what had woken him up.

Given the circumstances, he couldn't exactly move. So, he just lay there, contemplating Sherlock and their cases and the hot water bottle, no longer hot, wedged beneath his side, until he became aware of a change in Sherlock's breathing. He would be waking up soon. Sure enough, Sherlock twitched a few times before snuggling closer to John's side with a gentle side.

John smiled faintly, shifting a bit so that he could dislodge the water bottle from beneath his hip. It was beginning to hurt. As he dragged it from beneath the cover, it slipped from his slightly numb fingers and glanced off the back of Sherlock's head, who flinched violently.

"Sorry," John whispered with a wince of his own.

Sherlock tilted his head up slowly. His glare was almost swallowed by the heavy shadows draping the room, but John had seen those pinched brows and down-turned lips often enough to recognise the expression despite the darkness. His head tilted away again after a moment and returned to John's chest, although he noted that he didn't curl back against his body as much as he had been.

"So... this is nice," Sherlock mumbled, voice gravelly, thick with sleep.

"Oh, yes. Nice." John flexed his hand, wincing as blood flow resumed in tingling, painful bursts. "Did you gather any data or did you just sleep all... day?"

Right. His sleeping schedule was going to be as messed up as Sherlock's. Wonderful.

Sherlock rolled over onto his back, yawning. "Bit of both, I think," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Clearly, I fell asleep. However, I have ascertained why people sleep together. It seems that it did make me fall asleep more quickly than usual because I have no recollection of even being drowsy so much as waking up just now... Quite a pity, actually... I didn't get as much data as I would have liked out of it..." He trailed off for a moment. "But it is warm. Very cosy. Perhaps it goes back to being a foetus in your mother's womb? Warm and protected in the arms of someone else, it helps you to fall asleep faster. To calm down and put the troubles of the day behind you, multiplied exponentially when you're feeling scared or ill." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Yes, that probably has something to do with it. Anyway, I can see why people engaged in a physical relationship enjoy sleeping with one another. After coitus, they remain so satiated and exhausted that they fall asleep in each other's arms, in a whim of fancy that that is where they belong..." He hummed. "Understandable, but horribly sentimental, that."

John shook his head slightly and sat up far enough to pop his neck as he watched Sherlock stretch from the corner of his eye. He bore a striking resemblance to a cat, and John couldn't help the slight giggle that escaped him as more similarities came to mind: his lanky body, bouts of moodiness, selective palate.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Why are you laughing like a schoolgirl?" he asked, stretching again before dropping his arms back to the bed.

Knowing Sherlock, he was going to kill him, but he _had_ asked. "You just..." He cleared his throat and tried to smother his smile. "You couldn't be any more like a cat if you tried."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and rolled into a sitting position. "_Anyway_. I think I acquired enough information. Might have to do another test when one of us ends up sick or injured again... Definitely injured. Haven't tried that that one yet. But... I'm not going to get hurt for an experiment's sake. We'll just wait." He pushed himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom.

John's mirth disappeared at Sherlock's comment, swallowed by an underlying worry that he'd been harbouring ever since he'd seen Sherlock holding that pill. Hopefully he would never become bored enough to injure himself merely because he wanted to conduct another experiment.

Sighing, he freed himself from the covers before leaving the room and realising the bathroom door was still open, whilst, inside, Sherlock was using the loo.

"_Really_? What if Mrs Hudson had come up?"

Sherlock glanced up, amusement flicking across his face. "I'd say that she's familiar with male anatomy and that she's seen me naked before," he said simply. "But your concern is touching. Really."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," John muttered, recalling that he wanted a shower. He ascended to his room and located a fresh change of clothes before returning to the washroom, which Sherlock still occupied. "You almost finished? I'd like to take a shower."

Sherlock shoved his toothpaste back into the drawer. "I was just brushing my teeth. And I _was_ going to have a shower but I'm assuming that because you've gone upstairs and gathered clothes, that's a silent stake for having it first, and, if it is, you're making the tea first."

"Fine." John plunked his clothes down on the toilet lid and set about steeping a new pot of tea while Sherlock finished in the bathroom. Really, Sherlock _could_ make his own tea, but if it meant he got to use the shower first, he wasn't going to complain. Sherlock had a tendency to use up more than his share of the hot water.

By the time he finished washing the mugs and plates stacked near the sink, the kettle was whistling. As though called by the soft tone, Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

"Water's ready," John said, slipping around Sherlock and marching towards the washroom. "Might as well steep a whole pot—looks like we'll be up for hours yet."

He shut the door without giving Sherlock a chance to reply.

After towelling off from a quick shower that was a tiny bit too hot in an effort to make him sleepy again, John dressed in a clean t-shirt and sweats and left the bathroom, calling "Shower's free", before realising Sherlock was curled in his chair with the afghan on his lap and his fingers wrapped around a cup, looking mighty content.

Seems he'd showered in a rush for no reason.

John dropped his clothing on the staircase and fetched himself a mug before borrowing Sherlock's strainer and pouring himself a cuppa. He sniffed it. Cinnamon Stick. Sherlock must be feeling content; he only drank this in good moods.

Smiling slightly, he sank down in his own chair and enjoyed the spicy flavour rushing over his tongue as he sipped.

Sherlock shot up as though triggered by the movement. "Right," he said, putting his mug down and shedding the afghan in one fluid movement. He strode back to the bathroom without another word.

John flicked the TV on and located BBC News, but kept it muted, too relaxed to allow the world's troubles to fill the flat's airspace as he grabbed today's paper. Mrs Hudson must've brought it up at some point during the day, which... also explained why the mess they'd left on the coffee table and carpet was gone. Not their housekeeper, his foot.

Letting out a content hum as he sipped the fragrant tea, he leaned back in his chair and began scouring the paper for anything that would pique Sherlock's interest.

It was time to find something else for the mad genius to focus on.

* * *

**And this is the conclusion of Scribe and I's first RP turned story! We have at least three others coming, involving a panic attack with John and sensory over-stimulation complete with a cuddle with a weighted blanket with Sherlock. And the third, which we're role-playing currently... is a secret. ;) Look forward to those!**** [They will deviate between profiles - some will be posted under my pen name, some will be posted under hers : ScribeofRed.]**

**Scribe and I thank you so much for all of your favs, follows, and reviews. It's both of our first times turning a role play to a story (and, incidentally, Scribe's first time EVER writing John, which I personally think she does _wonderfully_) and we're super thankful for the support. We do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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